"I bet you're wondering what we're doin' here? Don't you worry; I'm going to tell you." He took a step inside her room. He was dressed from head to toe in black, with expensive shoes and a silk tie. "However, we are on a tight schedule so first things first."
He raised his hand in mid-air as if he grabbing at something. Sara had only moment to wonder what he was doing before her eyes widened with pain. All along her arms and legs small, precise cuts were carved into her skin. They rose from seemingly nowhere; neither of the men in the bedroom had pulled out a weapon. Each was a precise symbol that looked as if it had been cut with the sharpest of scalpels. Even more odd, there was little blood coming from the wounds. However, Sara didn't notice any of this - she had retreated into a haze of pain. She fell back onto the bed and arched her back, she tried to scream but pain had made sound impossible. The man dropped his hand and placed it back into the pockets of his black overcoat.
"Sorry about that, my dear, but, like I said we are pressed for time. Don't worry, those little cuts are only temporary. It will allow us to do what we need to do without interruption." The man walked closer to her, as if to inspect the marks. "Yes, very nice. That should keep my ex-partner in crime out for a few moments. It's not perfect, but what is these days?"
Sara didn't know if the pain had lessened or she had just been able to get out under its grip, but she turned her head to man standing over her bed. She had lived in Chicago since graduating from a small northern Indiana college 9 years ago. She been mugged and her apartment robbed, crime was a fact of life in such a large urban environment. She had always been told to stay as aware as possible during any crime. 'Don't concentrate on the crime, concentrate on the person doing the crime,' the police always told her. She did her best to take mental stock of the men who had broken in; she wanted to be able to give a description - should she actually live through this. The man in front of her was her height, which was to say average, wore a black suit to go with black overcoat. His hair was brown and receding, his facial features seemingly too wide for his face. But most notably was his British accent - you didn't hear that every day in Chicago. She turned her head slightly to look at the other man still standing by the doorway, dark brown shirt and black jeans, blond hair worn long in the back with sharp features, taller than the older man but still under six feet. Sara closed her eyes briefly to try to get these details to memory.
All of this took place in less than ten seconds while the older man, seemingly the leader of the two, removed his overcoat and started to roll up his sleeves. He was speaking to her. "I want you to appreciate the trouble I went through to get to you; angel in front of your door and an angel on your couch. You couldn't see them of course, but I could smell them as soon as I arrived. Heaven's down two angels, our new God won't like that. But guess what," he paused to look her in the eye and smile, "I don't bloody care."
He approached where she lay on the bed. She tried to move, but suddenly found she couldn't. It was as if her body was imprisoned in stone. She strained with all her might, even breaking a sweat, but though she was using all her energy she didn't move an inch. She turned her head to look at the man who was watching her try to move and spoke through parched lips, "Why?"
"Ah, yes, we haven't made introductions. I know, how rude of me." He casually pointed to his chest. "Name's Crowley, most powerful demon in hell. Actually, King of Hell - but you can just call me Crowley. I don't stand on formality." He turned to the man who still hadn't moved from the doorway. "Now that- that is what you call a specialist. His name is Uphir, but everyone just calls him 'The Doctor'." The man who had introduced himself as Crowley pulled a knife from his pocket. "The Doctor will make his purpose here very clear in a moment. But I need to do my bit first."
Crowley leaned way over until his face was mere inches from Sara and tapped the knife gently on her nose, "And to answer your question of why, I give you an answer of two words- Dean Winchester." As he said those two words his face screwed up into a gruesome mask and he made a clear precise cut down the center of her chest. The cut started above the v-neck t-shirt she had put on when she got home from the office, but it didn't stop there. He continued to slice – cutting both the t-shirt and skin at the same time. Sara screamed, she would have moved away from the pain, but she was still frozen. Unlike the small symbol cuts on her arms and legs, this cut bled –a lot. Crowley took a moment to admire his work. "Sorry we don't have time to chat more, but you're about to meet a real life angel. Aren't you excited? He won't be able to undo my ministrations, of course." As he said this he made a small cut just below his wrist. He watched the blood well up on his skin until it was near dripping, then he placed it on the cut he had just made on Sara's chest. "This part won't take long, just need to make sure I bleed on you a little. Do you know a little demon blood goes a long way? Very potent. I'm something of an amateur surgeon, not on the caliber that The Doctor is of course, but I do well enough to suit my needs." He turned to The Doctor and nodded slightly, and the man who had stood at the door for almost a full five minutes now came into the bedroom.
Sara gasped the words "Dean Winchester." She had meant to say 'I don't know Dean Winchester' but shock was starting to rob her of her facilities. A sob escaped her throat.
Crowley tsk'ed, "Now, no tears, love. I promise we're almost done. Of course, you won't be the same - but that's what you get when you throw your lot in with the Winchesters." He removed his arm from her chest.
"Don't" sob, tried to breathe, "know."
Crowley wasn't listening. He nodded to The Doctor once more, and began to roll down his sleeves and step away from the bed. "Your turn, make sure you get it right. We've only got one chance." This time it was The Doctor's turn to nod. Once he did that he leaned his head way back and opened his mouth wide. Black smoke started to pour out of his mouth towards the ceiling. Sara was sure she was dreaming. Once he seemed to be done expelling smoke, the man collapsed on the floor. The black smoke hovered above the ceiling before forming a long tunnel that headed straight for Sara.
The next few moments would be something Sara would never have believed had she not experienced itself. The smoke seemed to push itself down her throat, triggering a violent gag reflex. A horrible pain came from her stomach, it was as if someone had grabbed her around the waist and squeezed. Sara felt like the smoke was inside her for years, when in reality it was only one or two minutes. Then as fast as it was inside her, it was coming out. It went straight for the prone body of the man. He stood up once all the smoke had disappeared inside his mouth.
"Well, my dear, we're finished here, it's been a pleasure and all that. Say hi to Dean and Sam for me, and let them know I'll be in touch." Crowley raised his arm and squeezed at the air again, and as if my magic the marks from her arms and legs disappeared. She looked at her arms to make sure she hadn't imagined the marks disappearance, then back at the two men. But they were gone. Sara hadn't heard a footstep or a door close, more proof that she was losing her mind. Sara found she was suddenly able to stand. She did so quickly, too quickly.
In the movies when someone has been through a violent event, they come through with makeup and dignity intact. Real life was not so tidy. As soon as she stood up, Sara vomited on the floor. That action brought her to her knees on the hardwood floor, and not in a graceful manner. She couldn't see through the tears, she wiped at her eyes – she needed to focus. But when she looked at the hand that had wiped at the tears she noticed the moisture wasn't clear. Her tears were a smoky gray color, one more thing she couldn't understand. But she had long since stopped trying to understand. Her only thought was to survive. She felt moisture between her legs, and placed a hand there. She brought the hand back before her eyes and saw that it was covered with same smoky gray liquid that had come from her eyes. It was at this point she could handle no more. Sara let the blackness engulf her.
And that was how Castiel found her, dressed in a t-shirt and underwear, bleeding from the chest, long black streaks running down her face and her legs, mere inches from her own vomit passed out on the floor.
He was too late.